


you are a fever I am learning to live with

by schweet_heart



Series: Merlin Fic [176]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 05:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18218753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart
Summary: When Merlin suffers from a magical illness, Arthur suffers with him. Fortunately for both of them, with suffering comes clarity.Written forthisKinks of Camelot prompt.





	you are a fever I am learning to live with

**Author's Note:**

> Kind of ended up [filling my own prompt](https://kinksofcamelot.livejournal.com/1806.html?thread=599566#t599566) with this one. Whoops ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> See end of the fic for content notes. Title from Richard Siken's poem, [_Straw House, Straw Dog_](http://youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/straw-house-straw-dog-crush-by-richard-siken/).

 

Merlin falls ill at the tail end of autumn, the deep red of the turning leaves a match for the bright spots of colour on his cheeks, the frost a reflection of his too-bright eyes.

 

“He’ll be fine with a few days’ rest, sire,” Gaius says, and if Arthur had harboured any doubts about his manservant’s condition, they would have fled when he catches sight of Gaius’ face, the care-worn skin and the bags beneath his eyes. “With luck, it will turn out to be nothing but a cold.”

 

It’s not a cold. Merlin wastes away in slivers, dwindling before Arthur’s eyes like a waning moon, until one day he stops getting out of bed entirely and lies with his back towards the door, shoulders hunched as though to ward off a chill. His skin is so hot it burns to the touch, the back of his neck perpetually damp with sweat.

 

Gaius’ fear is contagious. It eats through Arthur’s sleep, corrosive as acid, destroying any possibility of a peaceful night’s rest. It seems that everywhere he turns, Merlin is _not there_ , and the space where he would usually be is taken up with strangers. Arthur paces his chambers. He watches Gaius stalk through the halls, growing gaunter as the weeks pass and there is still no change—at least, not for the better.

 

Merlin’s hands are dry now. Arthur holds them, one at a time, sitting on a different side of the pallet with each visit. He had thought that it might make Merlin stir—that he would have something tart to say about Arthur’s ridiculousness—but Merlin makes no sound. His stares glassily into a middle distance, watching something that only he can see, and he is not roused by anything that Arthur does, no matter how foolish.

 

It is then that Arthur begins to talk to him. Small things, at first. His day; the council; the way his father’s health continues to deteriorate. Gradually, this obligatory small talk begins to ease into something else, when it becomes clear that Merlin is in no state to judge or even to understand him, and is certainly not capable of repeating what he hears to anyone else.

 

“I don’t know if I can do this by myself,” Arthur murmurs one day, resting his elbows on his knees to bring his mouth closer to Merlin’s ear. “They keep asking me to make decisions, but all I can think is _what would my father do_? And I’m not sure if I should follow him, or do the opposite.”

 

He imagines Merlin’s response; Merlin urging him to follow his heart, as he has done so many times before. But Arthur’s heart only leads him back here, to this—it can’t be trusted to care about anything else.

 

“I never realised just how tedious a hunting trip could be without your prattle,” Arthur says another day. “We managed to take three deer before we were gone two hours, and it was so disheartening that I had to come home.” Merlin says nothing. Arthur pictures him laughing, the corners of his eyes crinkling with delight. Merlin has always enjoyed exasperating him.

 

And then: “I spoke to Gwen.” This in a strained voice; the conversation had been difficult. “We’ve agreed that there is to be nothing more between us besides friendship. I regret—I regret anything that I have done which may have hurt her, but there are other things…” He looks down at Merlin’s face, still turned away from him, the pale fingers laced over his chest. “Other things I can’t regret at all.”

 

He takes one of the slender hands and traces the outline of it, pressing their fingertips together as though to impart his strength to Merlin through the touch. The next time he comes, he confesses in a low whisper how much he misses Merlin’s smile, the way he moves, the set of his mouth when he’s doing something particularly rebellious and is just waiting for Arthur to notice. There are so many things he loves about Merlin, things he is terrified to lose. He lists them all, then lists them again in reverse order, trying to think of anything he might have left out.

 

He presses his lips to the dry heat of Merlin’s forehead, the sunken cheeks; touches a thumb to the cracked valley of his barely-open mouth. Merlin is still breathing; continues to breathe throughout the long, dark nights that Arthur is half convinced he cannot survive. It’s clear that Gaius doesn’t hold out much hope, but Arthur clings to it anyway the way he clings to Merlin’s hands, unwilling to give up.

 

One night, in the dead of winter, the prince is roused from slumber by a rapid knock on his chamber door.

 

“It’s Gaius, my lord,” George says, when Arthur opens it. “He says you’re to come at once.”

 

“Did he say why?” Arthur demands, already reaching for his robe. George shakes his head, but Arthur knows Gaius would not have sent for him without good reason; would not send for him at all, in fact, unless—

 

The infirmary, when they reach it, is ablaze with light. Merlin is stirring fitfully on his pallet, eyes closed, his whole body drenched in sweat, and even from the doorway Arthur can hear the rattling inhale of his damaged lungs, the effort it takes for him to breathe.

 

“Gaius?” he asks, his voice shaking.

 

“His fever’s getting worse,” the old man says, confirming what Arthur had already guessed. “I’m afraid there may be only hours left.”

 

Dread curls its way down Arthur’s spine, cold as the stone floor beneath his feet. He has always considered Merlin too thin, but now he’s bordering on skeletal, his prominent cheekbones protruding sharply beneath his skin. He looks half dead already, like a candle that has burned down almost to a nub.

 

“You said it was just a cold,” he blurts, unable to help himself. “You said he was going to be fine—Gaius, please. There must be something you can do.”

 

The physician sighs. “Sit down, Arthur,” he says, gesturing to the stool at Merlin’s other side. When Arthur sits, he picks up a damp cloth and applies it to Merlin’s forehead. “I’m afraid there is nothing we can do but make him comfortable. If he survives the night—”

 

But there he stops. Arthur swallows hard.

 

“What about magic?” he asks, forcing the words past dry lips. “You can use magic to cure him, can’t you?”

 

“I cannot, sire,” Gaius says, in his steady voice. “Merlin’s illness is one that feeds on his magical essence. If I were to attempt to heal him using magic—”

 

“—you would likely fall victim to it as well,” Arthur concludes, and Gaius nods. His eyes are on Arthur’s face, no doubt watching for his reaction, but Arthur has grown immune to shock at this point; certainly, the confirmation of something he has suspected for so long can hardly faze him now.

 

“We can only wait and hope,” the physician says, resuming his tending; and so that is what they do.

 

At some point in the night, Gaius dozes. Arthur is wide awake, unable to sleep for fear that each breath might be Merlin’s last, and in the solitude of the infirmary he admits to Merlin the one secret he hasn’t shared with another living soul. Merlin does not respond, of course, but Arthur fancies his breathing is a little easier, the hectic colour of his cheeks a little lighter than before.

 

Near dawn, Merlin inhales—coughs—and begins to choke. Gaius is startled awake at once, his gaze going immediately to his patient, and he gestures for Arthur to help him prop him up.

 

“His lungs are filling with fluid; we need to help him breathe,” he says brusquely, and Arthur scrambles to obey, grasping for a hold on Merlin’s tunic. His manservant is a dead weight, his body spasming wildly, and Arthur has barely gotten an arm around his back before his breathing stops altogether.

 

“No.” Arthur hauls him upright. Merlin’s head lolls, leaden on his white neck, and Arthur gathers him close, pressing him flush against his chest as though he can teach Merlin’s heart to beat by sheer example. “Merlin, no.”

 

“Sire,” Gaius begins.

 

Arthur ignores him. He fumbles at Merlin’s jaw, tilting his head; pushes air into his mouth from his own lungs along with his kiss. Merlin’s lips are chapped, cracked, but still warm against his own, and Arthur won’t allow him to be dead. He won’t.

 

“Merlin, come on.”

 

Merlin is immobile, heavy yet somehow fragile in Arthur’s arms. He still hasn’t inhaled. Arthur wants to shake him, strike him, hoping the impact will jar something loose. Perhaps it’s not too late. He kisses Merlin again—cups his face and breathes into him, like pouring water into an empty well and throwing his wishes after it. _Please don’t be dead_. 

 

There is an atmospheric shift; the change in pressure before a storm. Gaius calls, “Watch out, sire!” and Merlin gasps—gags on air. One of his hands clutches at Arthur’s tunic, and something like grey smoke spills out of his mouth.

 

“Arthur?” he rasps.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Arthur blurts, staring at him. “You _idiot_ —I thought you were _dead_.”

 

“Not yet,” Merlin says, and though he doesn’t smile the intent is there, faintly luminous behind his eyes. “I could still hear you calling me.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **Content note:** mildly dub-con for kissing while kiss-ee is believed dead/unconscious.


End file.
